


Should've

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Cheating, M/M, some more angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4871611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riccardo should’ve seen it coming. Andrea should’ve known better. (Or “that one time Andrea screwed up and Riccardo didn’t swallow it.”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Should've

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I’m sorry Nanna, I couldn’t help myself!~~ So we all know Andrea cheated on his (now ex) wife with his current girlfriend, right? I’ve been dying to write a breakup fic for ages, inspired partly by what actually happened and partly by Scott Alan’s song [Now](https://youtu.be/T40Dbul90Xk) (performed by Jonathan Groff). Add to that some personal relationship shit and this is what you get.
> 
> For the purposes of this story, I’ve made Riccardo take Valentina’s place in the events leading to Andrea’s divorce. Set sometime before Andrea’s move to NYC, but only because I didn’t want to add long-distance relationship to the mess.

All things considered, Riccardo really should’ve seen it coming.  
  
Once a cheater, always a cheater – that’s what they say, right?  
  
Somehow, Riccardo had managed to convince himself that Andrea was different – that  _they_  were different – after Deborah had found out about their affair and kicked Andrea out.  
  
Andrea had spent the next month practically living in Riccardo’s apartment, driving to Turin for training every morning but also returning every night without a fail. They’d never really talked about it, but the circumstances had inevitably transformed their affair from casual fuck-buddies into an arrangement that Riccardo would’ve labelled a committed relationship.  
  
Perhaps he’d been wrong. Perhaps Andrea had never been that committed. Perhaps he really was incapable of commitment, just like Deborah had told Riccardo when she dropped off the divorce papers at his doorstep.  
  
Riccardo feels like an idiot, because all the signs had been there, and he had not seen it. He’d been too blinded by his own naïve infatuation and amazement over the fact that Andrea could actually want him as something more than just a casual fling.  
  
He wants to believe it’s all just a big misunderstanding, but the photos don’t lie – he would recognize Andrea anywhere, no matter how unclear or dark the photos might be. There’s no doubt with the ones in the paper: they’re clear as day, there’re lots of them, and Riccardo can actually recognize Andrea’s rented Turin apartment in the background.  
  
What he doesn’t recognize is the woman in the photos, touching and kissing Andrea – touching and kissing  _his_  Andrea.  
  
Riccardo should’ve seen it coming.  
  
  
  
  
_”Where were you last night? I thought you were coming over.”  
  
“Sorry, I got carried away with the guys, crashed on Gigi’s couch.”  
  
“Gimme a call next time, will you? I couldn’t sleep without you.”  
  
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’m sorry, Riccardo.”_  
  
  
  
  
Andrea should’ve known better than to get involved with Riccardo so soon after his divorce.  
  
Well, technically, they’d gotten involved long before the divorce, but it was only after Deborah left him that Andrea realized what a gem he’d been holding in his hands this whole time.  
  
Riccardo is brilliant, everything Andrea could’ve ever wanted from a partner: sweet, calm, and understanding, with an excellent wit and a sharp tongue that he can use for much more than just talking. Once Andrea practically moved in with him, he’d been unable to leave.  
  
It had been terrifying, and not only because Riccardo was a man.  
  
Obviously, being in a relationship with a man – with a fellow footballer, no less – is extremely risky and the stakes are high, but in the end it’s just one more secret he’s expected to keep as a professional athlete. No, what had scared Andrea was how simple being with Riccardo had felt right from the beginning.  
  
Andrea’s relationships have never been simple, not with Deborah, and definitely not with anyone else he’s met before or during his marriage. Not before he met Riccardo.  
  
Old habits die hard – that’s what they say, right?  
  
Against all odds, Andrea had found himself in a relationship where things were uncomplicated and he could simply be  _happy_. That’s when the panic had hit him. It couldn’t last – he just knew there was no way it could last – and he couldn’t handle the thought of Riccardo walking away from him, finding someone else, being happy with someone else.  
  
So, instead of doing what any sane person would’ve done – cherish the happiness he’d finally found – Andrea had done what he always did: screwed up before he was in too deep to feel guilty about it.  
  
Except he does feel guilty.  _Fuck_ , does he feel guilty.  
  
Andrea should've known better.  
  
  
  
  
  
_”What’re those?”  
  
“Flowers, obviously.”  
  
“Why’re you bringing me flowers? You never bring me flowers.”  
  
“I promised I’d make it up to you, didn’t I?”  
  
“By bringing me flowers? It was one missed date, not the end of the world.”  
  
“I know it’s not. Can’t I spoil my boyfriend just because I feel like it?”  
  
“…You never call me your boyfriend.”  
  
“I do now.”_  
  
  
  
  
  
Gigi should’ve stopped Andrea from ruining the best thing in his miserable life.  
  
Gigi’s not exactly a prime example of a good partner himself – you might want to ask Alena about that – but he’d seen where Andrea and Riccardo’s relationship had been going long before either of them did, and he’d known Andrea was making a huge mistake running away from his happiness.  
  
Still, he’d made no attempt to intervene, because he was a firm believer that everyone should be allowed to make their own mistakes. If Andrea was going to cheat, Gigi had figured it was better to let him do it while the relationship was still fresh, so Riccardo would’ve some chance of getting out of it undamaged.  
  
Of course, ‘undamaged’ is a very relative term. Gigi figures this out only when he actually sees Riccardo two days after the breakup, when he drops by to collect Andrea’s things from Riccardo’s place.  
  
Riccardo appears alarmingly put-together: he has packed everything in a large sports bag – Gigi never realized just how much stuff Andrea had left behind at Riccardo’s – and he lets Gigi in with a half-smile and greets him as if everything was fine. There’s only a flash of relief in his features, probably from the realization he wouldn’t have to face Andrea. Not today, anyways.  
  
“You knew, didn’t you?” Riccardo asks softly when Gigi picks up the bag and flings it over his shoulder, flinching only a little at the unexpected weight. “I’m an idiot; everyone must’ve seen it coming miles away.”  
  
The bitter smile breaks Gigi’s heart. This is not the warm, caring Riccardo Gigi knows so well – this Riccardo is hollow and cold, his passive tone freezing Gigi to the bone.  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It wasn’t my secret to tell.” An excuse. Gigi’s good with those.  
  
The truth is, Gigi had known what would happen if Riccardo ever found out, and he hadn’t wanted to hurt either of his friends. Because despite Andrea’s idiocy, Gigi had never seen either of them happier than when they were together. He’d wanted to hold onto that, even though he’d known it couldn’t last.  
  
“He does love you, you know?” Gigi adds when Riccardo only makes a noncommittal hum, his eyes downcast, just low enough to avoid eye contact. “He’s a complete mess without you.”  
  
“Should’ve realized that a bit sooner, huh?” Riccardo mutters, and Gigi only now realizes his lips are trembling, like holding back a sob.  
  
Riccardo is a complete mess, too.  
  
Gigi should’ve stopped Andrea.  
  
  
  
  
_“How about calling me during the day every once in a while?”  
  
“Sorry, I just wanted to hear your voice.”  
  
“Well you’ve heard it now. Can I go back to sleep?”  
  
“Wait! Can’t we just talk for a while?”  
  
“It’s the middle of the night, Andrea.”  
  
“Please?”  
  
“Fine. How’re your kids?”  
  
“—What?”  
  
“Your kids, Andrea. They’re spending the night, aren’t they?”  
  
“Oh right, sure. They’re all good. Sleeping soundly.”  
  
“As we both should.”  
  
“Sorry, I’ll just call you again tomorrow, okay?”  
  
“Good night, Andrea.”_  
  
  
  
  
  
Giampaolo should’ve stopped Riccardo from ever getting involved with Pirlo.  
  
Sure, Riccardo had obviously been deeply in love – still is, in fact – but Giampaolo could’ve told from the start that having an affair with a married man was never going to work. He’d told as much to Riccardo, but had he really wanted to, he could’ve easily stopped it all from happening.  
  
He looks at Riccardo, sitting on Giampaolo’s couch, slumped into himself, a bottle of water clutched tightly between his trembling hands. His face is streaked, but there’re no more tears, his eyes probably cried dry by now.  
  
“I can’t go back there,” Riccardo had said when he came over, livid, almost panicking.  
  
Giampaolo had gathered just enough information to guess the rest: Riccardo had driven all the way to Turin in order to gather his belongings from Pirlo’s apartment while he was in practice, but in the end had been unable to enter the building, let alone the apartment.  
  
The key is sitting innocently on the coffee table. Riccardo makes a distressed sound when his eyes catch the sight of it, fresh tears sliding down his cheeks.  
  
Giampaolo wants to take the burden off his shoulders – he had even volunteered to get Riccardo’s stuff for him, just like Buffon had done for Pirlo – but Riccardo had refused vehemently.  
  
“I need to do it myself. I can’t show him how much it hurts. He needs to know I don’t give a fuck about him.”  
  
But Riccardo  _does_  give a fuck, Giampaolo wants to yell at him. Riccardo cares so much that it’s visibly tearing him apart, and Pirlo deserves to see every second of it – let him see the damage he’s done, let him suffer knowing how much pain his screwing around has caused.  
  
Giampaolo wants to say this and much more, but he takes one look at Riccardo and knows it would only hurt his friend even more to hear these things. Riccardo is so desperate not to care, and yet not caring is the one thing he’ll never be able to do.  
  
“Maybe you should wait,” Giampaolo says quietly as he sits down next to Riccardo, wrapping an arm around his trembling shoulders. “You don’t have to do it today. You can wait until it gets easier. Just take your time – no one’s expecting you to get over him without a struggle, the least of all him.”  
  
Riccardo leans into the half-hug and buries his face against Giampaolo’s shoulder, tears soaking through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. His voice is muffled when he finally answers: “I don’t think it’ll get any easier.”  
  
“It will, I promise,” Giampaolo assures him, squeezing Riccardo’s arm gently.  
  
Riccardo doesn’t answer, only buries himself a bit deeper into Giampaolo’s side and lets out an audible sob.  
  
Giampaolo lifts his free hand to pet Riccardo’s hair just as his eyes catch the sight of Pirlo’s key on the table, and a sudden wave of self-loathing floods through him.  
  
Giampaolo had known Riccardo was making a mistake.  
  
Giampaolo should’ve stopped Riccardo.  
  
  
  
  
  
_”Riccardo, I need to tell you something.”  
  
“Sure, what is it?”  
  
“Can you sit down? The dinner can wait, this won’t take long.”  
  
“You’re scaring me, Andrea. What is it?”  
  
“Riccardo, I— I should’ve told this to you weeks ago but—”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I— I love you, Riccardo. I don’t think I could live without you.”  
  
“Good thing you have me, then.”  
  
“Stop laughing, I’m being serious here!”  
  
“Sorry, I just thought something bad had happened – I love you too, Andrea.”_  
  
  
  
  
  
Andrea probably should’ve seen it coming, but it still takes him by surprise how much he misses Riccardo.  
  
It’s not just the obvious things – like sleeping and eating together, or the sex or the kisses, or the way Riccardo’s face lights up when Andrea tells him he loves him – it’s also the little things Andrea never paid that close attention to.  
  
Andrea misses the silly way Riccardo’s hair sticks up in the morning if he goes to bed with it still wet. He misses the annoyed way Riccardo purses his lips while watching Milan play, itching to get back on the pitch himself. He misses the way Riccardo’s voice drops just a little bit lower when he’s tired, and the way he pretends to be angry whenever Andrea calls him in the middle of the night and wakes him up.  
  
He misses the feeling of contentment that seeing Riccardo’s toothbrush next to his own used to give him. The toothbrush is still there – Andrea hasn’t been able to pack any Riccardo’s things yet – but now seeing it only reminds Andrea of what he used to have before he ruined everything.  
  
Andrea wants to ask Gigi how Riccardo is doing, perfectly aware that the goalkeeper’s been keeping close tabs on both of them ever since the breakup, but at the same time he feels like he doesn’t even deserve to utter Riccardo’s name anymore, let alone ask about his wellbeing.  
  
He finds Riccardo’s iPad from his kitchen two weeks after the breakup, half-buried under unread newspapers and empty takeaway containers – Riccardo always forgot important things like that at Andrea’s place, probably on purpose just so he would have an excuse to come back.  
  
Riccardo is not coming back this time; the realization practically knocks the breath out of Andrea’s lungs.  
  
Riccardo’s lock screen is a selfie of them together: Riccardo is smiling up at the camera while Andrea’s eyes are fixed on him, such warmth and adoration in his expression that Andrea barely recognizes himself.  
  
Andrea should’ve seen it coming.  
  
  
  
  
  
_”How long?”  
  
“It was just that one time, I swear.”  
  
“Don’t lie to me, Andrea.”  
  
“I’m not. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”  
  
“You must think I’m an imbecile. I can’t believe I fell for your shit for so long.”  
  
“No, Riccardo, please let me explain. It didn’t mean a thing.”  
  
“Did you say the same thing to Deborah?”  
  
“…”  
  
“We’re done, Andrea. Get out. Get out!”_  
  
  
  
  
  
Riccardo should’ve known better than to open the door.  
  
It’s the only thought that keeps running through his mind, but it’s too late now that Andrea’s already standing in front of him, arms wrapped around a small bag filled with Riccardo’s belongings – the same ones he’d intended to pick up a week ago.  
  
“How’re you doing?” Andrea’s question is hesitant and he’s not quite meeting Riccardo’s eyes.  
  
Andrea looks terrible: the dark bags under his eyes are highlighted by his unusual paleness, his beard looks like he’s not trimmed it even once since the breakup, and his hair’s hanging dully over his eyes. Riccardo is well aware he doesn’t look any better himself, but it’s striking to notice all these changes in Andrea’s usual demeanour, because Andrea’s the one who always manages to look flawless no matter the circumstances.  
  
“You look like shit,” Riccardo comments dryly instead of answering the question – the answer should be obvious to Andrea, anyways. He reaches out to take the bag from Andrea’s arms, desperate for him to leave as soon as possible, while Riccardo can still hold onto any semblance of his self-control.  
  
“You don’t say?” Andrea huffs out in a humourless chuckle, eyes flickering up just long enough to meet Riccardo’s. The sadness in Andrea’s eyes feels like a punch in the gut for Riccardo. “I can barely function without you. But you must’ve known that already.”  
  
No, Riccardo  _didn’t_  know, thanks for asking.  
  
“Well, you’ve got no one but yourself to blame, do you?” Riccardo grits out between his teeth, forcing himself to keep his tone cold. He can’t let Andrea get to him, because if he does, he’ll be right where he started.  
  
“I know. Doesn’t make it any easier.” Andrea lets out a heavy sigh and looks up again. This time he doesn’t break the eye contact, all his emotions unguarded, visible, and Riccardo thinks this might be the first time Andrea’s been completely honest with him.  
  
It’s too late.  
  
“I truly am sorry, Riccardo,” Andrea breathes out, his eyes pleading, desperate. “I made a horrible mistake, one that’s inexcusable, and I can’t blame you even if you never forgive me. I definitely know I’ll never forgive myself!”  
  
There’re tears in Andrea’s eyes. Riccardo knows he’s threading on thin ice just by letting Andrea keep talking, but he can’t bring himself to open his mouth, can’t bring himself to push Andrea away from his life for good. So he lets Andrea continue.  
  
“I know I have no right to ask for your forgiveness, but please, Riccardo, can’t we talk this through? Can’t we try again?” Andrea’s voice betrays his scepticism – even  _Andrea_  knows there’s no chance for them anymore, so why can’t Riccardo just let go? “I never realized just how important you were to me, not before it was too late. I promise you, I’ll never, ever,  _ever_  cheat on you again if you just give me one more chance.”  
  
“And if you betray me again? What then?” Riccardo finally finds his voice, thin and trembling as it may be. “You’ll ask for another chance, and I’ll give in to you again, because obviously I’ve got no sense of self-preservation when it comes to you.”  
  
There’s a flash of hope in Andrea’s eyes, then confusion, shame, understanding.  
  
“Please leave,” Riccardo whispers, tears stinging his eyes, each word getting stuck in his throat on their way out. He knows he won’t be able to resist if Andrea asks him again. He knows he’ll end up forgiving Andrea if he as much as says another word. “It’s over. Please, Andrea, just leave me alone. Please?”  
  
And Andrea does, but not before saying one final time: “I still love you, Riccardo, please remember that.”  
  
“Idiot,” Riccardo whispers at the closed door once Andrea has left. His legs give out and he slides down to the floor, his back against the wall and legs twisted under his body uncomfortably, tears falling down his cheeks unchecked. “Like I could ever forget.”  
  
Riccardo should’ve known better.


End file.
